The Miss-Adventures of Holmes and Watson
by Indigene Syke
Summary: Misnomers, misconduct, and mishaps. Oh, and, of course, Miss Justine Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Follow her and her misadventures with Consulting Detective Extraordinaire, Sherlock Holmes, as she tries to readjust to life after the Afghanistan war. Fem!John
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:**

 **This is not a classic rewrite. It does follow the episodes of the show _Sherlock_ , but there are aspects that I will be changing. As of right now, there isn't any romance or pairings. I'll see how things work out as we press on.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_ , or any of it's characters. It's just fun to mess with them. **

* * *

Captain Justine Hanna Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers jerked awake, sweat beading on her brow. She sat up quickly, pulling in heavy breaths. The bedclothes pooled around her in a messy heap.

Justine, less formally known as Jo, pushed the covers away, and stood up, letting the cool air of her tiny, drab bedsit blow away the dry, blistering heat of her dreams. She limped across the floor and turned on the kichenette's faucet, and plunged her head under the stream, gulping down the cold water.

Jo shut the faucet off, and wiped water from her face and eyes. She sighed heavily and stared glumly at the achingly dull tan-and-beige walls and floor of her tiny bedsit. The sameness of Jo's everyday life was awful, not improving her depression.

Some days, it was all the veteran could do to get out of bed. Tea was often all she had for a meal. Food tasted like it had back in the worst days of her hospital stays after she had been shot. Jo's therapist wanted to put her on a special diet, to try and gain back some of the weight she had been losing.

After some time, Jo pushed herself to move. She grabbed her utilitarian metal cane and her bathroom things and limped to the shared restroom on the first floor. For once, nobody was waiting for the bathroom. Now that she thought about it, Jo had no idea what time it was. Truthfully, she couldn't have cared less.

The invalid veteran stared at herself in the mirror as she cleaned her teeth and face. Same as yesterday. Short, underfed frame. Same tanned face, same stone-blue eyes. Same bow lips and dark, thick eyebrows. Same sturdy jaw, round features and pointed chin. Same black circles under the eyes. Same ash-blonde hair, cropped short. The hair had once been the color of honey, but stress and years of sun and sand had bleached much of the glow from it.

All in all, it was a rather ordinary face, hiding an extraordinary story, although Jo didn't think much of it. Jo was glad that she was so unobtrusive. Less questions were asked, especially about her debilitating limp and the bloody tremor in her left hand. Her _dominant_ hand. That tremor and the three seizures she had suffered during her recovery had permanantly removed her from Her Majesty's royal army.

That had been the end of Jo's life. Now, Jo was simply surviving. Not living. Nothing to excite her, get her blood pumping and her adrenaline rushing. Nothing to make her feel something. _Anything._

Today, Jo was just as despondent as she had been yesterday. But the smell of the scones drifting up from that dinghy little corner shop was less off-putting than usual, although Jo wasn't sure she had enough money to buy one.

As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, Jo decided she'd try to find something that day. Excitement, fear, love, food, she didn't care. Something other than the terrifyingly present grey that seemed to dominate her days.

So Jo tried. She actually combed her hair instead of using her fingers. She rubbed a bit of the orange-scented hand creme that Harry had given her into her dry fingers. Jo frowned at herself in the mirror. With her dark circles, Jo looked like an over-emotional woman who was trying too hard.

But, Jo supposed, she was an over-emotional woman. Trying hard, though? Not really.

Jo stumped out the door, her cane clicking on the pavement. A thick curtain of clouds covered the sky. Stopping to peer through the windows of the corner shop, Jo searched the menu for something that was actually in her price range.

Ah, well. Looked like a cup of tea was once again her breakfast.

Jo shrugged it off, feeling the rough wool of her jumper rub against the puckered scar beneath her left clavicle. That scar had come from a sniper's bullet. Bullet in through the back, out through the front, shattering the bottom edge of her scapula and tearing through the muscles and nerves of her shoulder. Limited mobility and an intermittent tremor in her hand were the lasting results.

Jo tried to brush away the sour thoughts, but it was hard, even 'trying' as she was. At least Jo was trying, which was better than most other days.

Jo's therapist, Ella, had suggested that she meet up with old friends, but Jo just couldn't. She hated seeing herself so pathetic and dull. She definitely didn't want anyone she knew seeing her this way.

Ella had also suggested that Jo keep a blog, insisting it would help her adjust to her new life. What life Ella was referring to, was what Jo wondered. The blog currently had only one post, with the words, "This is ridiculous. Nothing ever happens to me."

Jo was sure that Ella had rolled her eyes at that.

Jo shook her head, realising that she had come to a stop, lost in her thoughts. Jo started walking again, grimacing at the steady zing of pain in her hip. Jo followed her feet, heading to the nearest patch of green.

The park was mostly empty. A few pedestrians nodded at her. She was just passing a portly man reclining on a park bench when her called her name.

"Justine Watson?" The man grinned and stood, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

Jo stared at the man. He was familiar, but Jo couldn't place him.

"Mike Stamford!" The man said, extending a hand. "We studied together at Barts!"

It suddenly clicked. Mike Stamford had changed quite a bit. He had gained weight and he hadn't had eyeglasses last time they'd met. His hair was greying as well.

Jo shook herself out of her thoughts once more. "Of course, Mike," she said plastering on a smile. "Good to see you."

Mike grinned wider. "You didn't recognize me. I know, I got fat."

Jo smiled timidly back at him, not sure what to say.

"Would you like to get a coffee and chat for a bit?" Mike asked. "You look like you could use a bit of a pick-me-up."

"That'd be great," Jo said.

"There's a nice little cafe just across the street," Mike told Jo, pointing. "We can just pop across and grab a cuppa."

Inside the quaint little shop, Mike insisted on paying for Jo's cup of Earl Grey. Jo accepted it gratefully. She was broke and apparently, Mike could tell. Either that, or he was being a gentleman. Jo wasn't sure. She was rather bad with men.

The duo skipped back across the street to the park to sip at their drinks.

"So what are you doing back in London, Justine?" Mike asked. "I thought you were abroad getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot," Jo told him flatly, trying to ignore Mike's quick glance at her metal cane.

"I'm sorry," Mike said, sounding as if he meant it. "Are you living in London, or just passing through?"

Jo shrugged. "Not quite sure yet," she admitted glumly. While Jo would prefer to stay in London, realistically, she knew she couldn't afford even her tiny bedsit for much longer.

Mike grinned again. "Ah, London wouldn't be London without you!"

"It was for almost fifteen years," Jo said. "And I've changed quite a bit, too. And London is expensive. I haven't got a job, only my army penison. Gotta find something soon, or I'll have to find cheaper accommodations."

"What about Harry?" Mike asked, sipping his coffee. "Couldn't she help?"

Jo stared at the grass, picking at the edge of her cup with her shaking left hand. "Harry and I aren't speaking much these days." That was all the answer Jo was willing to give. While it was perfectly true, there was also the matter of Jo's sense of pride. She didn't want to be carried through life. She'd made it this far, and Jo figured that she could make it through the rest, thank you very much.

"What about a flatshare?" Mike asked.

Jo scoffed, anger and pain flaring through her. "I'm an invalid army captain and a surgeon who can't operate. Who on this good Earth would want me for a flatmate?"

Mike's chuckle threw Jo off. "What?" She asked, as Mike studied her with shrewd amusement in his eye.

"You're the second person to ask me that today," Mike told her.

Jo cocked an eyebrow. "Who was the first?"

"A friend of mine," Mike said, draining his cup. "His name is Sherlock Holmes. Do you want me to introduce you to him?"

Jo frowned. She was really _not_ interested in a flatshare with a male. Harry had tried that once, and things had gone… not good. Harry didn't date men anymore. Hearing stories from some of her army mates didn't help either.

Jo shook her head. "Nah, Mike. Thanks for the offer, though. I'll get by."

Jo drained the last of her tea and dropped the paper cup into the bin by the bench. She grabbed her cane and stood, ignoring the sharp ache of her leg.

"It was good to see you, Mike," Jo said, smiling grimly. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

Mike stood quickly, extending a hand. Jo shook it and turned to leave.

"Just a mo', Justine," Mike said. He snatched a slip of paper and a pen from his pocket and scribbled down a string of numbers. He cursed at the leaky pen, which had smeared blue ink over his hand. Rolling his eyes, he handed the paper to Jo. "That's my mobile number," Mike said. "Call me if you ever need anything, or if you change your mind about that flatshare."

"Thanks, Mike," Jo said, smiling tiredly. "I'll do that." Although she probably never would. Again that issue with pride.

* * *

William Sherlock Scott Holmes, known to all but his family as Sherlock, peered into the microscope, studying the green flakes under the lens. He dribbled something from a small pipette onto the flakes, and they sizzled softly.

Paint. From a ladder. If Sherlock was right, and he almost always was, the brother was the perpetrator of the crime he was currently investigating for Lestrade.

Sherlock suddenly cocked his head, listening to the quiet thump of footsteps coming up the hall. Perfect timing. Sherlock recognized that gait. Mike Stamford, who tended to step more heavily on his right foot than his left.

The door opened and Mike stepped inside. Sherlock swept a keen eye over him.

Bits of grass on shoe (at the park), coffee flecks on shirt cuff (coffee from a cafe), patches of sticky ink on the outside of his left hand (recently wrote a note with a leaky pen), and-Sherlock inhaled deeply though his nose-smog-laced London air (common for everyone), the smooth scent of coffee, the bite of metal (sat on a metal bench at the park perhaps? Ah, the closest park had wooden benches, with metal trim), and a whiff of something citrus-y, distinctly feminine (a hand creme or lotion, perhaps, picked up from a handshake).

A chance meeting at the park during his lunch break, then. Mike's current outfit was not something he'd wear to a special or planned occasion. Furthermore, Mike was married, quite happily, so not a girlfriend. It was someone Mike had once know, and now he wanted to keep in contact with. Why else would he leave the woman with his number? So, an old friend, one that Mike had known when he was young and now wanted to keep in contact with.

"Hullo, Sherlock," the portly man said, smiling.

Sherlock didn't bother returning the greeting. "Mike, may I borrow your phone?"

Mike chuckled. "What's wrong with the landline?"

"You know I prefer to text."

Mike snorted good-naturedly and slapped his mobile into Sherlock's extended palm.

Sherlock sent off a text to Lestrade and handed the mobile back to Mike.

Mike glanced at the text. "Another case solved, then?" Mike asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

Mike smiled. "Nice one," he said.

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the tinkling of Sherlock's glass slides, then Mike chuckled.

"What's funny?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his microscope.

"Oh, I told someone about you, earlier," Mike said.

"The female friend you met by chance at the park?"

Mike nodded, a grin in his voice as he answered. "I'm not even going to ask how you knew. Yes, that's right."

"Does she have a case for me?" Sherlock asked, glancing at Mike from the corner of his eye.

Mike shook his head. "She's looking for a flatmate," he said, sitting across from Sherlock. "Her name's Justine Watson. I told her about you and your flat, but she said she wasn't interested."

Ah. Dull.

* * *

Jo stumped into her bedsit, collapsing into the less squeaky of her two chairs and sighed. At least there had been a smidge of… difference, today, instead of the usual dull grey. After chatting with Mike, she had spent several long, boring hours exploring the familiar streets of London.

Jo stared at the floor. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

* * *

The next day certainly didn't start better. Jo was woken in the early hours of the morning by shrieks and screaming from outside. She could hear someone shouting to call the ambulance.

Jo leapt out of her bed, nearly tripping on the dragging sheets, and yanked an old jumper over her night clothes and jerked on her shoes. Jo grabbed the first-aid kit she kept under her bed and a torch and hurried out the door.

Three doors over and across the street, a group of teenaged kids was gathered in a group, two trying to comfort a sobbing third and a fourth jabbering quickly into her mobile.

Jo hurried across the street, ignoring the twinge in her leg. She stopped in front of the trembling group. She placed a hand on the shoulder of the girl who was just shutting off her mobile.

"I'm a doctor," Jo told the girl firmly, but gently. "What happened here? Is someone injured?"

The girl nodded, eyes wide. She pointed into the dilapidated building. "On the third floor, there's a woman. I don't think she's breathing. We found her a minute ago."

Jo nodded. "All right. You called the police and an ambulance?"

The girl nodded.

"Stay here," Jo ordered. "Wait for the police. Keep an eye on your friends. I'm going to go see if I can help."

Jo rushed up the three flights of stairs, hardly noticing her limp. She pushed open the door.

Lying face down on the floor was a woman dressed completely in pink (a frankly alarming shade, if Jo was honest).

Jo knelt next to the woman, snapping open the first-aid kit and pulling on a pair of disposable gloves.

Jo leaned close to the woman, listening for breath, and pressed two fingers to the woman's throat. There was no pulse, no telltale rise and fall of the chest and back for breathing, and Jo couldn't feel any heat from the woman's body.

She was dead, and had been for at least several hours.

Jo carefully studied the woman's face. She was familiar, but Jo couldn't place her. It made Jo wonder if her memory had been shot, right along with her shoulder.

Jo stared at the string of letters next to the woman's left hand. **R-A-C-H-E**. What was _rache_? Something tickled at the back of Jo's mind. _Rache_. Something about that word and this woman….

Jo brushed the woman's hair out of her face, and wrinkled her nose at the sour smell of vomit. Asphyxiation, then. Jo took another breath through her nose. No scent of alcohol. Disease, maybe? Or drugs? Seizure?

Jo carefully lifted the woman's hand. The color of the skin and the tips of the fingers definitely suggested a recent death, no more than a few hours, and rigor mortis hadn't yet set in. Jo flipped the woman's hand over and studied the skin on both of her wrists. No injection marks there, and now that she checked, none on the neck, either. Curious. Perhaps an orally ingested drug?

Jo dropped the woman's hand and lifted her eyelids. The whites of her eye were red but that didn't tell Jo much.

Jo chewed her lip and sat back on her heels.

 _Rache_ …. Why was that so familiar? Why couldn't Jo place this woman?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the wail of police sirens.

* * *

Jo stood against the wall, watching the forensics snap pictures of the dead woman with interest. She'd never seen an actual crime scene before, and though Jo knew it shouldn't be, it was quite interesting.

A silver-haired man had questioned her quickly about who she was and why she was there, and had been satisfied with her answers. He'd talked with a dark-skinned woman for a minute, then had quickly left the scene.

Jo was not yet allowed to leave, as the police were requiring a statement from her. So Jo stood against the wall, conveniently tucked out of the way, but with a clear veiw of things.

It was almost a full hour before Jo heard the voice of the silver-haired man, who'd introduced himself as Lestrade, again.

Lestrade came into the room, wearing a blue jumpsuit (Jo had also been made to put one on) and followed by a tall, slender, very well put-together man.

The man's clothes looked expensive and Jo wondered why _he_ hadn't been made to wear a jumpsuit. The man wore a long, black trench coat and had a blue scarf folded about his neck.

His features were extraordinarily angular and defined, with sharp cheekbones, jaw and nose. His skin was pale and his dark, curly hair was plastered haphazardly in a wild halo about his head. His eyes were silvery grey-blue, and very piercing, although they only lingered on Jo a moment.

"Information?" The man asked Lestrade, completely ignoring Jo, who stared at him curiously.

Lestrade frowned. "We don't have much," he told the dark-haired man. "A couple of kids found her a few hours ago. Her name's Jennifer Wilson."

Jo couldn't stop her sharp gasp.

Lestrade and the dark-haired man looked at her.

"Bloody hell," Jo muttered, staring at the woman who, until now, Jo had not realized was her aunt.

"What?" Lestrade asked, stepping closer. "Do you know this woman?"

"I didn't recognize her until now," Jo said, staring at the body. "She's my aunt."

* * *

 **Please tell me what you think in a review. And the aunt thing isn't a major plot point, so don't worry about that. It was just something I thought would be interesting.**

 **Hope you enjoyed that. (Seriously, please take a moment to leave a review, as we authors really love it.)**

 **Another update will come soon!**

 **-Indigene Syke**


	2. Chapter 2

**Again, the aunt thing is not a big point to the plot. I just had this idea for a little interaction between Jo and Lestrade.**

* * *

Jo felt guilty for how callously she was taking this, but she and Aunt Jennifer had never gotten along. There had been some sort of tif between Jennifer and Jo's mother when Jo was small, and Jennifer had been hateful toward Jo and her family ever since. Jo hadn't even had a thought of her since just after she left for Afghanistan.

"Tell us about her," Lestrade ordered.

Jo took a breath to start, but was interrupted by a man's voice coming from the doorway. "She's German," the man said smugly. " _Rache_ is German for revenge."

The dark-haired man stood and slammed the door in the skinny man's face.

"Yes, Anderson, thank you for your input."

Lestrade looked between Jo and the dark-haired man. "She's German?" He asked skeptically.

"Of course not," Jo said, at the same time as the dark-haired man. "She's from Cardiff."

The dark-haired man looked down his nose at Jo. "That's right," he said. "At least you're slightly useful and not sniveling like most others would be doing."

Jo blinked, not sure whether to take that as an insult or a compliment. Lestrade's exasperated expression told her it was a common occurrence.

The dark-haired man silently studied the body for another few seconds, rubbing his fingers along the dead woman's coat, poking around in her pockets and studying her hands and face, then flashed an odd grin at Lestrade and Jo.

"All right," he said, eyes flashing at Jo. "Let's see how much I got right.

"The victim is in her late thirties, a professional woman, most likely in the media, judging by her clothes. She lived in Cardiff,like you said earlier, where they've been experiencing heavy rain and winds, reason for the wet clothes and dry umbrella." The man showed Lestrade and Jo the mobile he'd typed a search into. It showed weather patterns around the London area. Indeed, heavy rain and winds in Cardiff over the last few hours.

"She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, although know of them knew she was married." Another glance at Jo, who was staring with astonishment. "Correct?"

Jo nodded, impressed. "How did you do that?" She asked. "Everything. You got everything. And frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if Jennifer had been cheating on her husband. She did that kind of thing. How do you come by that conclusion?"

"Her jewelry," the man explained, studying Jo with an intense eye. "All of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage, right there. The ring is ten years old, at least, and the inside is shinier than the outside, so she removes it regularly. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her fingernails. If she doesn't remove her rings for work, why does she remove them? Not just one lover, she'd never manage to maintain the fiction of bring single that long, so a string of them. Obvious."

Jo huffed admiringly. "Wow," she said. "That's amazing. So you're a detective, then?"

The man nodded, seeming surprised at something. "That's correct. Now, there's a woman lying here dead, let's continue. Now, what's _R-A-C-H-E_? It's not German, that's for sure, it's-"

"Rachel!" Jo cried excitedly as it clicked. "Rachel was my cousin. Or at least-"

"Was?" The man questioned, interrupting Jo, some sort of manic excitement gleaming in his eye. "She's dead? How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be a connection."

The man had stepped closer to Jo until he was standing right in front of her. Being the soldier Jo was, she didn't flinch or back away at his nearness, but she was surprised at how tall the slender man really was. The top of Jo's head barely hit his shoulder.

"I wouldn't think there's a connection," Jo said, eyeing the man warily, but still standing strong. "Rachel was my aunt's daughter. She was stillborn, about fourteen years ago."

The man frowned and stepped away, muttering to himself. "Continuing on, we know by the size of the victim's suitcase that she was only planning on staying in London one night. This wasn't a suicide, it was a murder, Lestrade. I need the files for the other victims."

"Hold up a minute, Sherlock," the silver-haired detective inspector said, pinching his brow. "What's all this about a suitcase?"

The dark-haired man, now identified as Sherlock, frowned and gestured at the dead woman, frustration bleeding through his voice. "Her suitcase. Where's her suitcase? Did she eat it? We know she had one. There are tiny splash marks on her heel and calf, you don't get that splash pattern any other way. So what've you done with her suitcase?"

Lestrade looked confused. "Sherlock," he said, "there was no suitcase."

Sherlock stilled. He bounded across the room and threw open the door. "Has anyone seen a suitcase?" He called over the railing. When no one answered, Sherlock pounded down the stairs.

"Wait a moment!" Lestrade shouted, affronted. "There was no case!"

"But they take the poison themselves!" Sherlock stressed, hands wringing the air. "They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks," Lestrade growled. "And...?"

"It's murder, all of them," Sherlock said. "I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings."

Jo watched with morning interest as Sherlock twitched, holding his hands in front of his face in delight. This man was one of the oddest people she'd ever met, and she'd met plenty of interesting people in Afghanistan.

Sherlock was speaking again, pacing back and forth on the second landing. "We've got ourselves a serial killer." He grinned. "I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked, exasperated.

Sherlock looked back up at Lestrade and Jo, who were peering over the railing. "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, and left her case there," Jo called.

Sherlock glanced up at her, his silvery eyes piercing hers. "No," he said, shaking his head, "she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…."

Jo frowned. "What is it?" She asked.

Sherlock's eyes widened and his face lit up with manic glee, clapping his hands in delight. "Oh! Ah, yes! Yes!"

Lestrade leaned over the railing, knuckles white. "What is it, Sherlock, what?" He asked angrily.

Sherlock grinned, teeth glinting in the low light. "Serial killers are always hard," he muttered."You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade cried.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock calls, hurrying down the stairs. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. We have to find out why she wrote Rachel!"

Sherlock disappeared from view at the bottom landing.

"Of course, yeah," Lestrade muttered, exasperated. "But what mistake?!"

Sherlock poked his head back into view, staring up at them. "PINK!" He shouted, then disappeared again.

Lestrade, baffled and annoyed, stalked back toward Jo's dead aunt. A team of officers scurried back and forth, taking pictures and gathering evidence.

Jo awkwardly followed Lestrade, not sure if she was cleared to leave yet.

Lestrade was muttering as he carefully studied the body. His eyes flicked to Jo and back to the body.

"This woman is your aunt?" He asked Jo, stopping his pacing to stand in front of her.

Jo nodded. "That's right."

"Was she coming to your flat? Has she contacted you recently?"

"No, to both questions," Jo said, narrowing her eyes to squint at the Detective Inspector. Was he insinuating what she thought he was? "Hold up a minute. Are you suggesting that I murdered my own aunt? I had nothing to do with this! I haven't talked to her in years!"

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the buzz of an incoming text on his mobile. Lestrade sighed and checked the message. "No," he said, sighing and rolling his eyes. "You're free to go. Please give your mobile number to Donovan downstairs, in case we need to contact you later. Thanks for your cooperation. Good day."

With that, Lestrade stalked away, running a hand through his silvery hair.

Jo frowned, wondering who the text had been from, and why it had stopped Lestrade's questions.

She decided that she didn't care as her leg twinged violently.

Jo limped down the stairs, leaning on the rail as her leg reminded her of its constant and painful presence.

* * *

Jo was nearly hopping on one foot by the time she hurried into her bedsit and collapsed onto the mattress. She groaned as she rubbed the area just below her hip. She needed a hot water bottle and her pain medications.

Even though it was only early afternoon, the heavy grey clouds and Jo's exhaustion made it seem much later.

After a quick cup of tea and a slice of toast, she crawled between the bedsheets, unwilling to take the trouble of showering.

She drifted to sleep almost immediately.

And it seemed that almost immediately, she was being awoken again.

Someone was pounding on her door.

Jo was wide awake immediately, silently rolling out of bed, her fingers wrapping around the gun she kept in the box under her bed.

Jo pulled on the jumper she'd dropped on the floor earlier, yanked on a pair of denims, and silently stalked to the door. There was no peephole, but she could see the hall light bleeding through the crack under the door.

Jo opened the door a crack, holding her gun carefully behind her back. A tall figure peered back at her.

Jo was surprised to recognize the detective who had been investigating her aunt's death earlier in the day. Sherlock Holmes. "Good evening, Miss Watson," he said.

"Did you need something?" Jo asked cautiously, still peeking out from behind the door. She tucked her gun in the waistband of her pants, nestling it against the small of her back.

"May I come in?" Holmes asked.

"No," Jo scoffed. "I'm not going to let some strange man into my home. We don't know anything about each other."

"I wouldn't say that's true," Holmes said. Jo could almost hear the smug smirk in his voice. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've very recently been invalided home, from either Afghanistan or Iraq. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic. Quite correctly, I'm afraid. Also, I know you have trust issues. Had a bad experience with men. Possibly with people in general."

For a moment, Jo stared, open-mouthed, before standing up straight and opening the door further.

"How the hell did you know that?" Jo asked.

Jo could actually see the smirk now.

"I didn't know," Holmes said loftily. "I saw."

"What the hell does that mean?" Jo asked. Holmes shrugged, smiled, and skipped past Jo into her bedsit.

He hurried to the tiny table and set something on it with a thud.

Jo was outraged. How dare he just waltz into her home like he owned the place? Who did he think he was?

Jo marched toward Holmes and was about to grab the upturned collar of his coat and drag him out of her house when she noticed what was sitting on the table.

It was a small, bright pink suitcase.

"Is that… the suitcase you were blabbing about earlier?" Jo asked, cautiously taking the only other chair at the table, across from Holmes. "Aunt Jennifer's case?"

Holmes glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow. "Yes. Mind if I take a glance in here? I'm sure Lestrade is already snooping at my flat."

"Why is Lestrade at your flat?" Jo asked, eyes straying curiously to the suitcase on the table.

"Ah… doesn't matter. He just enjoys snooping."

Holmes ignored her curious look and unzipped the suitcase, folding the top back, and rooting quickly through the contents.

There was nothing extraordinary about the contents, at least, not to Jo's eyes. Just a lot of pink clothes.

But apparently, Sherlock could see something more. He grinned and his piercing eyes met Jo's. He stared at her for a moment, and Jo uncomfortably pulled her jumper's collar higher.

"All right," Holmes said, leaning back, and pointing both index fingers at the case. "Do you see what's missing here?"

"What? How could I?"

"Her phone," Holmes told Jo. "Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there." Holmes pointed to the luggage tag on the case's handle. "And speaking of, I need to borrow yours."

Jo frowned, confused at the sudden change of direction. "Why? You have your own mobile. You used it back at the crime scene. I saw. Is it dead, or something? And how did you know I lived here?"

"No, no," Holmes said flippantly, waving a hand. "Don't want to use mine. Number's on my website. Don't want it to be recognized. And Lestrade texted me your address when I told him I needed to speak with you in person."

"Website?" Jo asked, frustrated at how far behind she seemed to be. "What the hell is it that you actually do?"

Holmes studied her, curious amusement playing across his angular features. "What is it you think I do?" He asked.

Jo shook her head. "I don't know! If I had to guess, I'd say detective, but as you aren't in uniform, and you're avoiding the Detective Inspector, I'd say you aren't official. Private detective, maybe?" Jo shrugged. "I've never heard of the police consulting private detectives, though."

Holmes scoffed. "I'm not a private detective. I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?" Jo asked.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

Jo smirked. "The police don't consult amateurs."

Holmes threw her a look.

"When you answered the door earlier, you looked surprised at what I told you. You also seemed surprised by my deductions about your aunt at the crime scene."

"Yes," Jo nodded. "How did you know those things?"

Holmes grinned. "I told you, I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, rather short and stiff for woman your age, suggesting it was recently a buzz cut, along with the way you hold yourself, says military.

"The way you behaved at the crime scene, the fact that you were a first responder, and your rather extensive first-aid kit, says doctor, or nurse, at least. So army medic. Obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. You limp when you walk but you don't favor your left leg when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, and you didn't have your cane-" he pointed to the hated object leaning against the wall, "-at the crime scene, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist. Now, may I borrow your phone?"

Jo, now more shocked than angry, slapped her mobile into Holmes's outstretched hand.

Holmes gave it a seemingly instinctive inspection. "Oh, now this is interesting," Holmes murmured. "Your phone is expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but look where you're living – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then."

Holmes flipped the phone between his hands, examining it in the low light. "Scratches, many over time," he said. "It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The woman sitting across from me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

Jo, excitement bubbling in her stomach, nodded. "The engraving."

Holmes nodded as well, grinning again. "Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're obviously strapped for cash, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

Jo shook her head. "All right, how can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Holmes's grin widened. "That was a shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them.

Holmes gestured to Jo. "There you go, Miss Watson, you see – you were right."

Jo frowned. "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

There was a second where Jo could say nothing, and Holmes seemed nervous.

"That ... was amazing."

Holmes seemed surprised. It took him four seconds to answer. "Do you think so?"

"Yeah, it was extraordinary!" Jo smiled.

Holmes still seemed surprised. "That's not what people normally say. Normally they say something more along the lines of 'piss off.'"

Jo burst into laughter, leaning her forehead against the table.

Holmes laughed as well, although his laughter seemed a bit less hysterical.

It took Jo a full thirty seconds to regain control of herself.

She breathed heavily as she levered herself up, chuckling again at the Holmes's face, which was bright red.

Taking her phone from Holmes's grasp, Jo examined it, amazed that something so simple as a few scratches could say so much.

"So was the only reason you wanted to see my phone was to show how amazing you are?" Jo asked.

Holmes snapped out of his surprised daze. "Of course not," he said. "I need you to send a text. These words exactly: What happened last night? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come. -Jenny Wilson."

Jo paused in the middle of typing the text. "You… want to text my dead aunt's phone?" Jo stared at Holmes. "Why?"

"It's not here, is it?" Holmes asked, gesturing widely at the pink suitcase on the table. "So where is it?"

Jo shrugged. "Maybe she left it at home."

Holmes huffed. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home. Have you sent it?"

Jo shook herself. "Ah… what number?"

Holmes read a string of numbers off to Jo and then closed his eyes, pressing his palms together under his chin.

Jo sent the text, set the phone on the table, and then stared at the odd man in front of her.

"So why did I just send that text?" Jo asked.

Holmes took a long, deep breath as he opened his eyes. "Well, the question is: where is her phone now?"

"She could have lost it," Jo theorized.

Holmes nodded, closing his eyes again. "Yes, or…?"

Jo blinked. "The murderer…" Jo murmured. "You think the murderer has the phone?"

Holmes shrugged, slouching lower in his chair. "Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability says the murderer has her phone."

Jo threw her hands in the air. "Right! So I just texted a murderer! What good will that do?"

Jo startled as her mobile buzzed loudly against the tabletop. "It says 'withheld calling.'"

Holmes grinned. "A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer… would panic."

Jo swallowed as the phone stopped ringing, staring down at the mobile as though it was possessed.

Jo glanced up at Holmes as he flipped the suitcase lid closed and stood. "Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead," Holmes said. "There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to me?" Jo asked.

"You're closer than Victor Trevor at my flat," Holmes said, shrugging and glancing around at Jo's bedsit. She wondered if he was seeing other details of her life in the things lying about.

"Who's Victor Trevor?" Jo asked. "Is he your work partner or boyfriend or something?"

Holmes wrinkled his nose. "Oh, no, people, not really my area. Victor Trevor is my skull."

Jo blinked. "A skull. All right." She paused for a moment. "Wait, are you saying that you talk to a skull? And that I'm basically filling in for that skull?"

Holmes nodded. "Relax, you're doing fine." Holmes stalked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. Jo just stared.

"Well?" Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well what?" Jo asked slowly.

"Well, you could just sit there and do nothing," Holmes said.

Jo cocked her head, staring at Holmes. "What, you want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out," Holmes explained, "and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention." Holmes paused for a beat. "Could be dangerous."

Jo shook her head. Holmes was such a conundrum. _So interesting… different… exciting._ "You enjoy this, don't you?" Jo asked.

Holmes shrugged nonchalantly. "And you enjoy danger."

With that he turned and walked out, leaving the door to Jo's bedsit hanging open.

Jo sat for a moment, still as a statue. Her hands were perfectly steady, resting on the tabletop. She could feel her heartbeat, strong and steady, pounding in her chest.

With a loud curse, Jo pushed herself out of her chair, grabbed her cane, and followed Holmes out the door.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Please take a minute to review. I love them.**

 **If you have any suggestions, comments, or suggestions, please tell me. This is self-beta-ed, so if there are any mistakes, please point them out and I will try to fix them.**

 **Peace out. -Indigene Syke**


	3. Chapter 3

Jo caught up to Holmes just outside, her cane tapping against the pavement. She had to take almost three strides to one of Holmes's. The night was dark, and there were few streetlights in this part of London.

"Where are we going?" Jo asked, breathing in the smell of damp pavement.

"Northumberland Street's a twelve-minute walk from here."

Jo glanced up at Holmes incredulously. He looked down with a raised eyebrow. "You think he's stupid enough to go there?" Jo asked.

Out of the corner of her eye, and Jo could see Holmes's wide smile. "No, I think he's brilliant enough," he told Jo. "I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

Jo frowned, studying the pavement under her feet. "Why?"

"Appreciation!" Holmes explained vigorously. "Applause! At long last, the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Watson: it needs an audience."

Jo glanced at her companion and barked out a quick laugh. "Yeah."

Holmes seemed quite oblivious to Jo's implication. Holmes spun a quick circle, gesturing to the surrounding area.

"This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city," Holmes said. "Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go.".

Holmes held his hands near his face, as if he could force half-formed thoughts into reality. His fingers were tense and claw-like.

"Think!" Holmes hissed. "Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

Jo frowned, struggling to keep up with Holmes's intensity and long stride. The bloody cane made it abominably difficult. "Ah, I'm not sure. Mail deliverers? Police? I don't know. Who?"

The detective stilled for a moment, and then shrugged. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

Jo opened her mouth to answer no but was surprised to find that, for once, she was hungry for real _food_ , not just the odd munchie here and there.

It was strange.

After another few minutes of walking, Holmes led Jo into a small restaurant. The waiter near the door grinned brightly at the two of them and gestured to a reserved table at the front window.

Holmes gave him a quick nod. "Thank you, Billy," he said, shrugging out of his long black coat and slipping into the bench seat. He sat nearly sideways in what Jo thought was a very odd position.

The waiter, identified as Billy, pulled Jo's chair out for her, as she set her cane on the bench seat, and helped her slip off her old black jacket. The young man smiled widely at Jo's thanks. Billy snatched the 'Reserved' sign off the table and placed a menu in front of Jo, then hurried away, still grinning.

Holmes glanced at Jo, then tilted his head, gesturing to a building across the street. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street," he explained. "Keep your eyes on it."

Jo smirked. Of course there was an ulterior motive to this particular restuarant. "He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he?" she asked. "He'd need to be mad."

The curious detective looked at her again, eyebrow raised, disappearing into his dark, tangled curls. "He has killed four people."

Jo paused, tilting her head as she thought about it. "Okay."

Just then, a man, who had to be the owner or manager of the restaurant, scurried to the duo's table. The man seemed absurdly pleased about something.

The man clasped Holmes's hand and shook it vigorously.

"Sherlock," the man gushed, wringing his hands together excitedly. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free." The man's hands fluttered slightly toward Jo, his grin enourmous. "On the house, for you and for your _molto bello_ date."

Holmes glanced to Jo. "Do you want to eat?"

Jo glanced at Holmes, then at the excited little man, flushing red. She gestured between herself and the eccentric detective across from her. "Oh, we're not- I'm not- I mean…." Jo swallowed, trying to force her cheeks to loose their blush, and gave up. People would assume what they would.

Grinning, the man slapped a hand on to Holmes's shoulder. "This man got me off a murder charge."

"This is Angelo," Holmes told Jo, nodding towards him.

Jo smiled tightly and offered her hand to Angelo, who, to her eternal embarrassment, took it in both of his, and kissed it. Jo flushed again, and folded her hands onto the table in front of her.

Holmes gestured at the grinning Angelo. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking," he said.

Angelo smiled at Jo, who was a bit unsettled by the attention she was getting. She hadn't gotten that kind of attention since, well, at least before Afghanistan. She hadn't been interested in dating any of her army buddies. "He cleared my name," Angelo said, gesturing proudly at Holmes.

"I cleared it a bit," Holmes corrected. "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing," Angelo said. Looking at Jo, he winked. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison," Holmes told Angelo flatly.

Angelo gently patted Jo's hands. She set them in her lap. Unfazed, Angelo spoke over his shoulder as he hurried away. "I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."

Jo shook her head. "We're really not!" Jo called.

"You may as well eat," Holmes told Jo, turning back to the view. "We might have a long wait."

Angelo came back with a small glass bowl containing a lit tea-light. He set it on the table between the detective and the doctor, and flashed Jo an enthusiastic thumbs-up before turning and walking away again.

"Ahh… thanks," Jo muttered, looking anywhere but Holmes.

Jo opened her menu, and scanned the list of items, still avoiding Holmes's piercing gaze.

"Try the rissoto," Holmes told her, without so much as a glance her way.

Jo sighed, frustrated, and set her menu down. "Look," she said, "Mr. Holmes-"

"Call me Sherlock."

"Sherlock, then," Jo amended. "I really don't know why I'm here."

"I need someone to bounce ideas off of." Sherlock still didn't look at her, intent on watching Northumberland Street. "You're doing fine." Sherlock quickly passed a discerning eye over Jo. "Order something. You look half-starved."

Jo huffed, ignoring the prick of hurt in her chest, then flagged down the waiter, and ordered the rissoto. The duo sat in a silence that was much more comfortable then Jo would have expected.

Jo's food was brought to her in record time, arriving just after five minutes or so, piping hot. Jo's stomach grumbled excitedly. The rissoto did smell wonderful. And it was. Jo dug in, finishing almost half of her dish before she slowed down to breathe. Jo glanced curiously at Sherlock. "Aren't you going to eat something?" She asked.

Sherlock shook his head, still peering out the window. "I don't eat while I'm on a case."

"That's terrible for you," Jo told him indignantly. "You'll starve yourself."

Finally Sherlock turned and gazed steadily at her, raising an eyebrow. "Says the woman with a depressive eating disorder." Jo opened her mouth to protest, but decided against it. He was right after all. Sherlock blinked. "From the way you practically inhaled that risotto, I'd say you haven't eaten a real meal in a long while."

Jo huffed and turned back to her meal. "This is ridiculously surreal," she said around a full mouth. "I'm helping a consulting detective, who can read people with a glance, on a case of serial killings that look like suicides." Jo grinned ruefully. "Are you actually real? Because you don't seem very real."

Sherlock turned his attention to her, eyes meeting hers. "I assure you," he said, voice smooth, "that I am very real, though perhaps not in the way most people are. What are _real people_ like?"

Jo shrugged. "Well," Jo struggled for words, "um, more normal, definitely. Normal jobs, they don't talk to skulls. They have relationships; friends; people they know; people they like or don't like. Ahh, girlfriends and boyfriends, things like that."

Sherlock blinked. "Yes, well, as I was saying – boyfriends, girlfriends, people, relationships; not really my area."

"No relationships at all, then?" Jo asked, frowning at the detective. "That's not very healthy."

Sherlock glanced around at her, then turned back to the window.

"Healthy is boring," Sherlock muttered. He turned his attention back to the street.

Jo looked away, bemused. Jo was running out of things to say, so she took another bite of her rissoto. Just then, Sherlock nodded out the window, desturing across the street. "Look across the street," he said. "Taxi."

Jo glanced at the window. There was indeed a taxi idling outside of 22 Northumberland Street.

Sherlock stared at the taxi with unblinking eyes. "Stopped," he muttered. "Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out."

"Look at the passenger," Jo murmured, dropping her fork onto her plate. Jo's hands were steady once again.

In the rear seat of the taxi there was a youngish man. He was staring through the side windows as if trying to see somebody particular.

Sherlock blinked sharply. "Why a taxi?" He muttered, almost to himself. "Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"So that's him?" Jo asked, studying the man in the taxi.

"Don't stare," Sherlock snapped.

Jo stared at Sherlock instead of the cab. "You're staring," she said indignantly.

"We can't both stare," Sherlock said. The detective suddenly leapt to his feet. He grabbed his coat and scarf and headed for the door. Jo scrambled out of her own chair, nearly tripping, then slipped on her own jacket, mindful of her shoulder, and followed the detective out the door.

Outside, in the chill of the evening, Sherlock shrugged himself into his coat while keeping his eyes fixed on the taxi.

The passenger in the taxi seemed to sense Sherlock's gaze, eyes finding Angelo's restaurant, searching. The man studied the restaurant, then his gaze fell on Sherlock.

The two men just looked at each for a moment, then the man turned away. The taxi lights blinked once, and then the taxi pulled away from the kerb.

Sherlock immediately sprinted across the street toward it, without even bothering to look for cars. One car almost ran Sherlock over. Sherlock didn't even stop, but rolled, shoulder first, over the car's bonnet, landing on his feet and continuing his chase. The driver shouted and blared the horn at the detective, who ignored it.

Jo, following behind as fast as she could, slapped a hand on the bonnet and vaulted over the front of the car.

"Sorry," Jo called giddily over her shoulder.

She followed after Sherlock, who had realised that he wasn't going to be able to catch the taxi.

Jo hurried to stand behind him, peering after the cab.

"I've got the number," she told Sherlock.

"Good for you," Sherlock gritted out. His hands were near his forehead again, as he concentrated.

Jo studied the detective curiously as muttered, quick fire, under his breath.

Jo was startled when Sherlock suddenly sprinted toward a man who was unlocking an access door and grabbed him, shoving him out of the way before charging into the building.

The man cried out in angry protest.

Jo hurried after Sherlock. "Sorry," Jo called to the man as she passed by.

Jo could feel her heart pounding as she raced after Sherlock, up a flight of stairs, then a wrought-iron fire escape leading to the roof. The chilly metal bit into Jo's hands as she used the rails to pull herself up faster.

"Come on, Watson!" Sherlock called as he reached the top of the stairs.

As Jo reached the roof, she saw Sherlock hurrying down another-shorter, this time-metal spiral staircase leading down the side of the building to another door one floor lower. Jo scurried after Sherlock as he galloped down the stairs then leapt the short gap from the railing to the roof of the building across. Sherlock sprinted across to the other side of the roof and leapt across another gap between buildings-this gap much, much larger.

Jo raced after him, but skidded to a halt when she saw how large the gap was. Jo wasn't sure that she could make the jump across. Jo hesitated, breathing hard, and stared down at the long drop into the ally below her. Jo's heart pounded against her ribs.

It was Sherlock's call that forced her into action. "Come on, Watson! We're losing him!"

Jo panted, heart pounding, then growled, backed up a few paces, and sprinted toward the gap. Jo leapt as far as she could. Her feet slammed into the rooftop and she dipped forward into a roll. She felt bits of gravel catch in her hair.

As soon as she was steady on her feet, Sherlock grabbed Jo's arm, dragging her toward another fire escape stairway. The pair dropped onto the dirty pavement of an alleyway.

Sherlock turned the corner and raced down the alley, Jo following close behind.

Sherlock cried out in anger as the boot of the taxi swished past. He sprinted down another road, following the pavement.

Sherlock and Jo's feet slapped against the pavement. Jo's harsh breathing stung in her lungs, her heart pounded against her ribs. The impact of her feet slammed through her legs up to her spine and shoulders. It was exhilarating.

The duo sprinted through more alleys dotted with rubbish, and down empty side streets.

Sherlock suddenly skipped into the main road and hurled himself into the path of the approaching cab. The cab screeched to a halt as Sherlock crashed into the bonnet. Jo slammed a hand on top of the bonnet and slide over, like she had before, her momentum too great to stop herself. Her feet slapped the pavement. The force rippled pleasingly through Jo's ribs. Jo caught a glimpse of the curious look on the elderly cab driver's face.

The detective scrabbled for something in his coat pocket, as he hurried to the right side of the cab. Sherlock flashed a shiny I.D. badge at the driver.

Sherlock slapped the top of the cab. "Police! Open her up!"

Sherlock panted as he tugged open the rear door. Jo watched, confused, lungs burning, as Sherlock stared at the passenger for a second. The excited look dropped from Sherlock's face. The passenger, a pale man with a pointed chin and dark, slightly curled hair peered back at Sherlock nervously.

"Not him," Sherlock said, sharp eyes scanning the man. Sherlock huffed. "Teeth, tan: what – Californian? Just arrived from L.A., Santa Monica."

Sherlock straightened up again, with an annoyed grimace.

"How'd you possibly know that?" Jo asked, peering at the passenger.

"The luggage."

Jo suddenly understood, and examined the suitcase's luggage tags. She grinned slightly when she saw that Sherlock was correct. LAX to LHR.

Sherlock nodded a greeting to the passenger. "Probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie took."

The passenger glanced uncertainly at Jo and Sherlock. "Sorry – are you guys the police?"

"Yeah." Sherlock briefly showed the I.D. badge to the man. "Everything all right?"

The passenger smiled nervously. "Yeah."

Sherlock paused for a moment, then gave the man a completely fake smile, welcomed him to London, and walked away.

Jo blinked at the men, surprised by Sherlock's sudden departure. "Ah, let us know if there are any problems," Jo told the man, who nodded, smiling politely.

Jo took a step back as the man swung the door closed, then Jo hurried toward Sherlock, glancing back at the cab one last time. It was definitely the same cab. Same number. Just before Jo turned, her eyes met the eyes of the grey-haired, spectacled cab driver. The man smiled and twiddled his fingers at Jo, who hesitantly waved back.

Jo stopped next to Sherlock, hands clasped behind her back. Sherlock stared at the cab as it pulled away. Jo glanced up at her curious companion.

"So what in hell was that?" Jo asked. "Just a cab that happened to slow down?"

Sherlock shrugged, seemingly unbothered now. "Basically."

"So definitely not the murderer, than," Jo said, swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet. She enjoyed the pull of her weight through her knees and hips. "As he was in the wrong country, he has a pretty good alibi."

"Not the murderer," Sherlock agreed. "And the alibi is relatively sound, as they go."

Jo glanced down at Sherlock's long, pale hands, swapping the I.D. card from one hand to the other.

"Where'd you get this?" Jo asked, reaching for the card. "Give me that."

Sherlock released the card. Jo studied it, holding the shining silver surface toward the yellowy-white light of the nearest street lamp.

"'Detective Inspector Lestrade?'" She asked, folding the card closed, and rubbing the leather casing between hands, which were tingling with the cold and her pumping heart. "Why do you have his card?"

Sherlock continued to stare after the cab, which had pulled to the kerb about a block down. "I pickpocket him when he's annoying," Sherlock explained, a grin just pulling at the edges of his lips. "You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

Jo nodded, fighting her smile. One more glance at the card, and Jo burst into giggles. Jo slid the badge into her pocket. She'd return the badge later.

Sherlock pulled his gaze away from the American man who had just gotten out of the cab and was waving over a pair of police officers. "What?"

"Nothing," Jo snickered. "Just: 'Welcome to London.'"

Sherlock chuckled softly. He glanced down the road. Jo followed his gaze, to where the American passenger was speaking with a pair of orange-vested police officers. The passenger was pointing the detective and the doctor out to the officers.

Sherlock looked down at Jo, grinning. Her eyes were sharp. "Got your breath back?"

"Ready when you are," Jo smiled.

The duo turned and sprinted away into the dark streets.

"Where are we going?" Jo called over the slap of their feet on the pavement.

Sherlock's reply was nearly lost over the sound of Jo's own heart pounding in her ears, but she managed to catch it. "Two-two-one B, Baker Street!"

* * *

 **Please take a moment to review. Tell me what you think? Have I done the story justice?**

 **Thanks for reading. Thank you to those that have favorites or followed. Hope you enjoyed it!**

 **-Indigene Syke**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock led Jo up a flight of stairs and slammed open a door with a crooked knocker. He held the door for Jo, who nearly tripped over her own feet, she was laughing so hard. Sherlock grinned as he draped his coat over the bottom of the banister.

Jo leaned against the wall, laughing, and pointed a sharp finger at Sherlock. "Okay, Mr. Detective," she gasped. "That was ridiculous. Absolutely the most ridiculous thing that I have ever had the pleasure of doing."

"And you were in a war," Sherlock said as he leaned against the grey-green wall beside Jo, laughing through his heavy breathes.

Jo giggled. "That wasn't just me." Jo glanced at her surroundings as she got control of herself. Something about the situation was odd… other than the possibly mad detective who was her companion, of course. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

Sherlock dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

Jo turned a sceptical eye on Sherlock, still grinning. "So we ran around like a couple of loonys for nothing?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not. We were just passing the time. And I was proving a point."

"What point?"

"You."

Jo blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock smiled at her. It was almost condescending, but not quite. "You seem to be less of an idiot than most people," he said. "I'm sure you can figure it out. And don't be offended, almost everyone is an idiot."

Jo shook her head, wondering how the detective could possibly be so socially inept.

Jo happily tapped her toes against the floor as she thought. Obviously she was missing something.

Her toes….

The realization hit Jo like a mallet. Her _leg_.

Jo yanked her hands in front of her face. No cane. Jo jerked her head around to stare at Sherlock so fast that her neck clicked.

The corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile.

"The door is for you," he told her.

Jo turned to look at the door just as someone knocked sharply, three times. Jo glanced back at Sherlock in surprise. He only smiled.

Jo concentrated on the feeling in her leg as she walked to the door and opened it. Indeed, Sherlock was right. Angelo from the restaurant was standing there, holding Jo's cane in his hands.

"Sherlock texted me," Angelo explained with a grin. "He said you forgot this." Angelo offered Jo her cane.

Jo blinked once, then took it, surprised, as she always was, at how cold the metal was. "Ah, thanks, thank you," Jo stuttered. "That was… very kind of you."

Angelo smiled and nodded, then left.

Jo closed the door, staring at her fingers wrapped around the cane for a moment before turning and staring, wide-eyed, at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled at her softly. The smile was the most genuine that Jo had seen from Sherlock. Jo smiled back, not even knowing what to say.

A smallish, older woman suddenly hurried down the stairs, breaking the quiet moment. She sounded worried and near tears as she said, "Sherlock, what have you done?"

Sherlock gently grabbed the woman's shoulder to steady her. "Mrs Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a watery glare. "Upstairs."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and he turned and hurried up the stairs. Jo hurried after, cane still clutched in her hands. Sherlock opened a door and skipped inside. Jo followed Sherlock into what appeared to be a living area. Jo couldn't quite tell, as almost everything was covered with strange odds and ends. Sitting in a black armchair, attempting to be casual, was the Detective Inspector that Jo had met earlier, Lestrade. He appeared annoyed as he glared at Sherlock.

Other police officers were there as well, rifling through the piles of rubbish scattered about the room. Sherlock stormed over to stand in front of Lestrade.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked indignantly.

Lestrade stood up. "It _was_ a drugs bust," he growled. "We're just finishing up."

"You can't just break into my flat," Sherlock snapped back, folding his arms.

Lestrade sighed, exasperated. "And you can't withhold evidence!" he cried. "Sherlock, I know you found Jennifer Wilson's case! Where is it?"

"The case is at Watson's bedsit," Sherlock sniped. "Go and get it if you like. Just get out of my flat."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Jo snapped, stepping in between the angry men and holding her hands in a _stop_ motion. "First off, a drugs bust? Who for? And second, no one is going into my home without me!"

Lestrade offered a hand to Jo. "Nice to see you again, Miss Watson," he said, smiling tightly. "I wish it was under better conditions. Would you feel better if you were to accompany one of my officers while they went to pick up the evidence?"

"Fine," Jo sighed, exasperated. "Swing by my place in about an hour? I'll meet you there."

Lestrade nodded, and shook Jo's hand, thanking her.

He left Sherlock with a sharp nod, calling his officers after him.

Soon, it was just Jo and Sherlock. There was an awkward silence, then Jo cleared her throat. "Ah, if you don't want to answer this, you don't have to, but-"

"Yes, the drugs bust was for me," Sherlock interrupted quickly, almost nervously. "Lestrade is an idiot. He knows I've been clean for years. I don't even smoke."

Jo nodded, pursing her lips. "I wouldn't have guessed," she told Sherlock. There was another moment of awkward silence. Jo rubbed her hands along her cane. She was unusually aware of her leg. Jo desperately hoped that didn't mean that the pain was going to come back. She had enough with her shoulder.

Jo cleared her throat again. "Well, I'd better head out," Jo said to Sherlock. "I've got some shopping to do, and you know…." Jo smiled a genuine smile at Sherlock. She offered him her hand, and they shook. "It was fun," Jo told him.

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Good evening, Miss Watson."

Jo nodded and turned to leave. She started when she came face to face with the older woman who Sherlock had called Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson didn't look happy. Her fists were planted solidly on her hips.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson snapped, glaring over Jo's shoulder at the detective. "You will not make this nice young lady walk home all by herself in the dark!"

Jo blushed. "That's really not-"

Mrs. Hudson turned a glowing smile onto Jo. "Hush now, deary," she cooed, gently clasping Jo's hands in her soft, wrinkled ones. "Sherlock needs to learn proper manners, especially if you two are going out together."

Jo's cheeks flushed even brighter red. "We're not-"

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Don't you worry, deary," Mrs. Hudson said, turning back to Sherlock. "We'll have some manners drilled into him in no time."

Jo nearly spluttered. Why was everyone assuming she and Sherlock were _together_? They'd literally just met.

Mrs. Hudson leveled Sherlock with a stern glare. Maybe Jo was imagining it, but she thought she saw Sherlock's stubborn features soften just a bit. "Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson told him, "You are going to escort this lovely young lady to her home right now, or I'll bin those horrible eyeballs that you have stashed in the microwave!"

Sherlock huffed. "Yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock sniped. "We're going."

Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a sharp look. "None of that attitude, Sherlock. I'm not your housekeeper."

Sherlock muttered something under her breath that both Mrs. Hudson and Jo decided to ignore. Jo suppressed a smile. It was amusing, watching Sherlock pout after Mrs. Hudson's brow-beat.

Mrs. Hudson smiled widely at Jo. "What's your name, sweet pea?"

Jo shook the old woman's hand. "Jo Watson. Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Do please come over for tea sometime, deary," she said. "I get lonely here all alone. I've got a bum hip. I don't get out as much as I used too."

Jo nodded. "Of course. I've got a leg." Jo glanced at the cane in her right hand. "Sometimes."

Jo glanced at a large, dust-covered clock hanging on the wall. "I'd better be going," Jo told Mrs. Hudson, smiling. "It was wonderful to meet you."

Mrs. Hudson waved cheerily as Sherlock followed Jo down the stairs and out the door.

Jo turned to Sherlock as soon as they were out the door.. "You don't have to come," Jo told him matter-of-factly. "I'm perfectly capable of walking myself home. Besides, I need to buy groceries. Surely you don't want to come shopping with me." Jo frowned. "Suppose most of the stores are closed at this time, though."

Sherlock shook his head. "Talking to you is better than talking to my skull," he said, snapping the collar of his long black coat up.

Jo shrugged, grinning. "All right," Jo said. "Fill in for a skull again. Okay." It made Jo strangely happy.

The pair walked side by side down the pavement. The streets were mostly empty, probably because of the late hour, and the cold wind beginning to blow. Jo zipped her black jacket up to her throat, glad for how thick it was.

"So, how many cases have you consulted on for the police?" Jo asked, glancing up at Sherlock's chiseled features.

He smiled slightly. "This is the thirty-sixth in five years. Lestrade didn't trust me as much when I was using."

Jo nodded. "Makes sense."

They pair walked in a comfortable silence for a minute. "Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked suddenly. "Not enough data to tell."

Jo started at Sherlock's sudden question. "Afghanistan," she said. "I served for fifteen years."

Sherlock nodded knowingly. "So I got it all right? There's usually something."

Jo grinned. "There is something."

Sherlock stopped short. He stood stiffly on the pavement, refusing to move. "What was it?"

"Harry is my sister."

Sherlock blinked once. "Sister!" He growled angrily, moving forward again. "I knew it! There's always _something_!"

Jo laughed. "It's all right. Harry and I have always had funny nicknames. Jo and Harry, the tom-boys. Harry used to call me Jo-Jo Bean."

"Lovely," Sherlock muttered. "Now, ignoring that, we need to figure out who the killer is. And what Rachel has to do with the case?"

Jo pursed her lips, thinking hard as they crossed the street.

"Aunt Jenny was a very shrewd woman," Jo told Sherlock. "From what I remember, she was very careful with her things. So why would she leave her phone behind?"

Sherlock nodded. "That is the question," he murmured. Jo heard a soft intake of breath, as if Sherlock had gasped. "In fact, that might be the answer."

Jo glanced up at him. "How is that the answer?"

Sherlock turned to Jo and pumped his fists. "Jennifer Wilson had a smart phone!" He cried, spinning in a circle. "With GPS tracking enabled. On her suitcase, the luggage tag! There was an email address that she could use to track her mobile if she ever lost it! And the password is-"

"Rachel!" Jo cried, facing Sherlock and clenching her fists. "The password is Rachel! She wanted us to track her phone, so we could find the killer!"

"Yes!" Sherlock cried. "That's it! Do you have a laptop?"

"Yes," Jo said excitedly as she followed Sherlock, who was hurrying forward once more. "It's a dinosaur, but it's internet enabled. We can use it to track the phone and find the killer!"

"Excellent," Sherlock said, spinning in another wide circle. "We're closer to your place than mine. Now if only-perfect!"

A cab was slowly driving beside them, as if the driver had sensed Sherlock's sudden need for speed.

Sherlock hopped inside and spouted off Jo's address. Sherlock whipped out his mobile, and sent off a quick text, then settled back, tense and excited.

Jo climbed in next to him. The cab pulled away from the kerb.

Jo chuckled at the giddy look on Sherlock's face. "You're like a kid on Christmas," she laughed.

"Don't you understand?" Sherlock crowed, grinning maniacally at Jo. "This is it! This is what I live for! We're close! We've almost solved it!"

Jo smiled and faced the front again. And she caught a glimpse of the cabbie's face as he glanced over his shoulder at them. It was the cabbie from Jo and Sherlock's frantic car chase. The cabbie grinned softly at Jo.

And Jo understood it all in a heartbeat.

Well, most of it.

Jo turned to Sherlock, who was sitting back, smiling contentedly.

"Sherlock," Jo mumured quietly. "I've solved that riddle you gave me earlier."

Sherlock's eyes met hers, and suddenly his face tightened. His eyes flicked to the cabbie, then back to Jo's. Sherlock straightened in his seat.

Jo was suddenly very aware of herself as the cabbie turned on to a dimly lit street, pulling toward what appeared to be an empty college building. A street light sent dim light onto the white building's face.

Jo felt her heart beat, slow and steady, perfectly calm. She felt every inch of herself, muscles tense and ready. And she felt the gun she still had stuffed down the back of her trousers.

The cab slowly stopped, parked between two identical buildings.

Jo and Sherlock stared as the cabbie turned to smile at them. The overall impression of the man was grey. Grey hair, grey eyes, old, grey-toned clothes.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said with a nod to Sherlock. He nodded at Jo as well. "Miss."

The cabbie drew a shiny black handgun, and held it on Sherlock.

The cabbie twitched the firearm towards Sherlock's door. "Both of you get out that door," he said. "Or I'll shoot you."

* * *

 **Bit shorter than the last few, but the next chappie will be out soon. Probably today, because I'm impatient like that.**

 **Thanks for the follows and favorites. But seriously, review please? I'd like to know what people think.**

 **-Indigene Syke**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you to the guest who left a review! (You know who you are.) This chapter is dedicated to you, my very first reviewer! Thank you!**

* * *

Sherlock slowly opened the door and slid out, Jo following after. The cabbie opened the boot of the cab and grabbed a loop of thin rope.

Jo slipped her hand under her shirt and grabbed her gun as the cabbie motioned toward the building on the right. Jo was slowly drawing it when she felt a long, cold hand grab her wrist.

She barely heard Sherlock's quiet murmur of, "Not yet."

Jo wondered how long Sherlock had known about her gun. And she also wondered if he was bonkers, allowing a serial killer to threaten him.

"In there," the cabbie said, moving behind the duo. He pointed the gun at their backs. Jo jerked her hand in front of her. "Take a right, and follow the hall all the way down."

"I'm Jeff," the cabbie said as they walked slowly inside. "I'm very excited to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I enjoy your website. Brilliant stuff! Loved it! And don't ask how I knew to find you. I followed you back to your flat when I saw it was you chasing my cab." There was a pause. "Wasn't planning on the girly, here." A sigh. "Guess this means my time is up."

"What do you mean, 'time?'" Sherlock asked, walking slowly through the dark halls.

The trio was now at the end of the corridor.

Sherlock pushed open the door and led the way into a darkened classroom. The space was filled with wooden tables and chairs. The light was flicked on by the cabbie as he entered the room after Jo.

"Sit down," he invited, flicking the gun toward a pair of chairs.

Jo plopped into one of the two chairs. Her hand immediately went back to the small of her back to clasp her gun, but again, Sherlock hissed at her to stop. "We need a confession."

The cabbie aimed the gun at Sherlock. He tossed him the string of rope. "Tie her up. Good and tight. I'll check after you've finished."

Sherlock looped the rope tightly around Jo's wrists. "Trust me," he breathed as he leaned close the Jo's ear. "WE'll be fine." Sherlock said nothing as the cabbie checked the bonds, pulling and tugging to make sure they were tight. The ropes pinched the skin of Jo's wrists.

Saying that Jo was annoyed at Sherlock for preventing her from getting her gun was an understatement. But… for some reason, she did trust Sherlock, even if she thought he was 100 percent mad.

The cabbie sat in the chair across from them, still holding the sleek black gun on Jo and Sherlock.

"What did you mean when you talked about time?" Sherlock hissed, almost sounding desperate. Jo wondered if the stress of the situation was getting to Sherlock... or if all he really wanted was information. He was too curious for his own good.

Jo's hands were perfectly steady, as she worked quietly at wiggling them out of her bonds.

The cabbie smiled and shrugged. "A few things, actually. My game is up, unless the police somehow believe that the both of you committed suicide on the same night."

"WhaT?," Jo snapped suddenly, glaring at the man. "Are you just going to say, 'go ahead and kill yourself' and expect us to actually do it? You're bonkers!"

The cabbie focused his attention on Jo, studying her curiously. "Certainly not bonkers, miss. Brilliant. Bit like Mr. Holmes, here. He's a proper genius."

Sherlock was staring at the cabbie so hard that Jo was surprised Sherlock hadn't burned a hole into the man's head with the force of his gaze. Jo almost growled out loud when Sherlock's bindings refused to loosen.

"A fan of yours told me about you, Mr. Holmes," the cabbie said. "Been waitin' for this. Though I wasn't expecting your friend here." The cabbie gestured toward Jo with his gun. Jo stared back at the man. He seemed so ordinary. Just an old man working as a cabbie.

"My fan?" Sherlock asked harshly. Jo wondered if Sherlock even realized that they were in danger. The dim light in the room made Sherlock's pale skin seem ghostly. Jo hoped that wasn't some sort of creepy omen.

"You are brilliant," the man said thoughtfully. "You know how to think properly, Mr. Holmes. Why can't people think?" The cabbie seemed genuinely frustrated. "Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, I see. So you're a 'proper genius' too."

The cabbie's lips quirked in a smile. "Don't look it, do I? Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Both of you. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know."

Jo's eyes flicked between the two men. The ropes around her wrists were still tight. Sherlock had a desperate, hungry look in his eyes. His fingers were pressed hard against the tabletop.

The cabbie was speaking again. "I don't wanna kill you, Mr. Holmes. I'm gonna talk to you... and then you're gonna kill yourself." The cabbie glanced at Jo. "You and I, Miss, we'll have a nice little chat after Mr. Holmes and I are through."

Jo's fragile patience suddenly snapped. "You really are insane!" Jo hissed, staring wide-eyed at the little man in front of her. "Is there really anything you could say that would actually make either Sherlock or me kill ourselves? That's ridiculous!"

The cabbie looked at Jo and smiled. "I've gotten four others," he said. "Why do you think I can't get you, or Mr. Holmes?"

"Because no matter what you two 'proper geniuses' seem to think, I'm not an idiot!"

The little man studied Jo curiously. "I didn't plan for two," he said slowly. There was a moment of silence, when Jo and the cabbie stared at each other. Jo's hands stilled. "But I'll figure that out in a bit," the cabbie continued, turning his attention back to Sherlock. "Right now, let's play."

The cabbie reached into his coat pocket, removed a small glass bottle and set it on the table. The glass clicked loudly as it hit the wooden table. There was a single pink and white capsule inside. Jo stared at the bottle. It was strange how something so small could be so deadly. Sherlock didn't even react at the sight of the bottle.

The cabbie smiled. "I like this bit," he chuckled, gesturing at the pair of them with his gun. "'Cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this."

The cabbie reached back into his coat and set a second, identical bottle next to the first.

Sherlock gazed at the bottle for a second, then looked up to meet the cabbie's eyes. Jo's eyes flicked between Sherlock and the cabbie, wondering if this silly genius showdown was really happening.

Apparently, it was.

"Two bottles," Sherlock muttered. "Explain." Jo went back to her bonds, pulling at the knot Sherlock had tied.

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle," the cabbie told Sherlock. "You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."

"Both bottles are of course identical."

"In every way."

"And you know which is which."

"Course I know."

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses."

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?"

"Oh, hell!" Jo broke in. Both men turned to stare at her. "Forgotten I was here, did you? Why in hell would Sherlock take either one of those? I'd be willing to bet that you couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with that gun of yours!"

The cabbie chuckled softly, smiling at Jo. "Got some fire in you, don't you, miss? I 'aven't told Mr. Holmes the best bit yet. Whatever bottle he chooses, I take the pill from the other one – and then, together, we take our medicine."

Jo watched in a mix of fear and morbid fascination as a slow, excited grin bloomed on Sherlock's face.

"I won't cheat," the cabbie promised. "It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't."

Sherlock looked back to the bottles, studying them carefully.

"Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. Holmes?" The question was almost smug.

Sherlock glanced back up at the cabbie, his grin now showing his sharp white teeth. "This is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice. That's why there were no signs of struggle. No coercion."

"That's right. And now I'm givin' you a choice, too." The cabbie smiled as he settled back in his chair. A gleam of excitement shone in his eyes. "You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game."

"It's not a game!" Jo screeched, yanking hard on the ropes and grimacing as they cut into her wrists. "It's chance."

The cabbie shook his head. "I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this... this... is the move."

The cabbie slid the first bottle across the table to Sherlock, then watched him curiously. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one."

There was a long moment of contemplative silence. Sherlock studied the bottles, occasionally glancing at the cabbie. The cabbie looked at nothing but the concentrating detective, and Jo continued to work at her bonds, working harder as she felt them begin to loosen. Her wrists were aching.

"You ready yet, Mr. Holmes?" the cabbie finally asked, peering at Sherlock through his eyeglasses. "Ready to play?"

"Play what?" Sherlock asked. "It's a fifty-fifty chance."

"You're not playin' the numbers," the cabbie said, grey eyes, flat, and leveled at Sherlock.. "You're playin' me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?"

"Still just chance."

"Four people in a row? It's not just chance."

"Luck."

"It's genius. I know 'ow people think. I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead."

Jo was getting awfully tired of the back and forth banter. She was also getting awfully worried. Sherlock's finger were twitching toward the bottles. Jo could almost sense his burning curiosity in the tense air.

"Can we just crack on, now?" Jo asked. She growled when she thought she heard Sherlock sigh. Was the idiot actually annoyed at her interruption? She was the one tied up, and she was the only one actually trying to get out of the situation alive. He really does enjoy it, Jo thought incredulously.

"Miss Watson is quite correct," Sherlock said simply, placing his palms together under his chin. "I've got an experiment waiting for me in the fridge. You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"

The cabbie tried to remain expressionless, but his face tightened, just a bit. "Time to play."

Sherlock's sharp eyes scanned the cabbie quickly, his mind flashing back to things he had instinctively noticed back in the cab.

"Oh, I am playing," Sherlock told him softly. "This is my turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. There are traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you."

The cabbie's cheek twitched and his body was tense, Jo noticed, as she continued to pull against her loosening bonds. She was pretty sure that she had scraped all the skin off her wrists with all her yanking. She could feel something wet on her stinging wrists.

"But there was a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them."

Now the cabbie really showed a reaction; his face tightened in pain, and his gaze slid away from Sherlock's razor-sharp sight line.

"Estranged father," Sherlock grinned viciously. "She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts."

Jo wondered how on Earth Sherlock could pull such huge revelations from such minuscule details.

Sherlock grinned and held his fingers up in a 'wait' signal. Jo wondered if he'd actually forgotten that Jo was there. He hadn't so much as glanced her way in the last few minutes.

Sherlock's sharp smile widened. "But there's more."

The cabbie met Sherlock's eyes again as Sherlock pointed at him, gesturing to his clothes, which were clean, but well-worn.

"Your clothes," Sherlock explained, "recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?"

The cabbie stared unemotionally back at Sherlock, his expression blank now, not giving anything away.

Jo heard Sherlock take a soft intake of breath, as if he'd deduced something else.

"Ahh, I understand," Sherlock murmured softly, still watching the cabbie carefully. "Three years ago – is that when they told you?"

The cabbie stared at Sherlock flatly. "Told me what?"

"That you're a dead man walking."

The cabbie's gaze hardened and his cheek twitched. "So are you."

Sherlock ignored the man's glare. "You don't have long, though. Am I right?"

The cabbie finally smiled, though it was dark and grim. "Aneurysm," he confirmed, tapping the right said of his temple. "Right in 'ere."

Sherlock smiled in a way that said he knew he was the smartest person in the room, and he knew that he had just proven it. Jo's heart beat faster as she felt her wrist start to slip through the ropes tying her to her chair.

"Any breath could be my last," the cabbie told Sherlock.

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people." It wasn't a question, but Sherlock's tone of voice said that it should be.

"I've outlived four people," the cabbie emphasized, smirking, relaxed again. "That's the most fun you can 'ave on an aneurysm."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children."

The cabbie looked away and sighed, then looked back at Sherlock, and said, "You are good, ain't you?"

Sherlock nodded confidently. "But how?"

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids," the cabbie explained. "Not a lot of money in driving cabs."

Jo's right hand was almost free. Just a few more minutes and she'd have it.

"Is there money in serial killing?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"You'd be surprised," the cabbie grinned.

"Surprise me."

The cabbie leaned forward with a vampiric smile. "I 'ave a sponsor."

Sherlock blinked. "You have a what?"

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think." The cabbie seemed so happy. Jo just stared, so surprised that her hands had stilled once again. Now she was 100 percent certain that the cabbie was insane.

And his sponser was 200 percent insane. And terrifying.

Sherlock voiced Jo's question. "Who'd sponsor a serial killer?"

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?"

Jo shook her head roughly, trying to jostle the idea of sponsored killings out of her head. She'd seen enough of that in the war.

The cabbie grinned, much too viciously for such a small old man. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder, Mr. Holmes. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that."

Sherlock's cheek twitched in annoyance. "What d'you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?"

"There's a name no one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose." The cabbie gestured to the two bottles with his gun.

Jo's breathing quickened, and she went back to tugging desperately at her bonds. Sherlock would probably take one of the pills just out of curiosity.

Sherlock looked down to the bottles, his eyes moving from one to the other.

"Sherlock!" Jo hissed desperately. "Don't be an idiot! Just run! Get out of here!"

Sherlock glanced her, curious surprise spreading across his face. "Miss Watson has a point. I also doubt that you are a good enough shot to hit a moving target." Sherlock glanced at the cabbie, then back at Jo. "But I'm quite sure that Mrs. Hudson would commit murder tonight if I just left you here." Sherlock looked at the cabbie. "This has been very interesting. Let's finish up."

"Wait!" Jo cried desperately. "Sherlock, you know what you can do! Don't take that pill."

Sherlock looked at Jo, and Jo knew that _he_ knew what she was talking about. Her gun. If Sherlock shoved her to the floor and grabbed her gun, there was a good chance that Sherlock could shoot the cabbie before he could snap out of his surprise.

But Sherlock looked away, ignoring Jo, and reached across the table to snatch the bottle nearest to the cabbie.

"Oh. Interesting." The cabbie's voice gave nothing away as he benignly studied Sherlock. He picked up the other bottle, and weighed it in his hand. "Very interesting."

The cabbie unscrewed the bottle's lid and tipped the capsule into his palm. He held the capsule up to the light, and examined it closely.

Jo was now desperate, twisting her wrists harshly. She could feel her skin tearing, and blood wetting her wrists. Her right hand was so close….

"So what d'you think?" The cabbie asked as he met Sherlock's eyes. "Shall we? What do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?"

Jo was almost hyperventilating now. She felt a few drops of blood fly off her hand.

"I bet you get bored, don't you?" The cabbie was saying. "I know you do. A man like you… so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?.

Sherlock unscrewed the lid of his bottle and tipped the capsule into his hand. He pinched it between his thumb and finger and held it to the light to examine it more closely.

"Still the addict," the cabbie said softly. His voice was inviting, daring Sherlock to 'play.' "But this... this is what you're really addicted to, innit? You'd do anything... anything at all... to stop being bored."

Jo watched in horror as Sherlock slowly began to move the pill toward his mouth. The cabbie mirrored Sherlock, lifting the capsule to his lips.

"You're not bored now, are you?"

Jo was shouting. She didn't know when she had started. Jo hardly knew _what_ she was shouting. But Sherlock was being an absolute moron. Jo screamed in anger and fear, and wrenched her right hand from her bonds. She scrabbled for her gun as Sherlock's hand moved the pill closer to his mouth.

"Innit good?" The cabbie asked, completely ignoring Jo's cries. Sherlock's hand was mere millimeters from his lips. The pink and white pill seeming larger than it should have been.

Jo's fingers found her gun in the waistband of her trousers.

Sherlock opened his mouth…

...and a gunshot shattered the air.

The bullet ripped through the left side of the cabbie's chest, and he fell to the floor with a hoarse scream.

Sherlock dropped his pill in surprise, and it rolled away. He turned to stare at Jo, who still had the gun pointed at the cabbie, one hand still tied behind her chair. He stared for a solid ten seconds, then scrambled out of his chair toward the cabbie, who was coughing and bleeding on the floor. Sherlock snatched up the pill he had dropped, and brandished it at the cabbie.

"Was I right?" He shouted roughly, desperately. The cabbie turned away, ignoring the question. "I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?"

The cabbie ignored Sherlock, drawing in shallow, rasping breaths.

Sherlock growled in anger. Jo wondered how he was so unconcerned that he could have died. Jo was exhausted, but energized at the same time. Adrenaline was a wonderful thing.

"Okay," Sherlock hissed. "Tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my 'fan'. I want a name."

The cabbie shook his head weakly. "No."

"You're dying," Sherlock growled, "but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name."

The cabbie shook his head again. Sherlock lifted his foot and pressed it against the bullet holes the cabbie's chest.

"A name," Sherlock demanded

The cabbie cried out in pain. "Sherlock," Jo called. "Stop! This is wrong!"

Sherlock ignored her. "Now."

The cabbie whimpered. Sherlock pressed harder.

"Sherlock!" Jo shouted.

"The name!" Sherlock demanded furiously.

The cabbie broke. "MORIARTY!"

The cabbie's eyes closed and his head lolled to the side as he stopped breathing. Blood dribbled from his mouth into a grotesque pool on the floor boards.

Sherlock slowly stepped away, mouthing the name. "Moriarty."

Jo stared at Sherlock, so still compared to the fierce anger from a few seconds ago.

Jo finally realized that her arm was still extended, fingers perfectly steady as she clutched her gun.

She slowly lowered her gun, and concentrated on how she felt. She had just shot a man.

Right at that moment, Jo felt adrenaline pulsing, and her chest heaving. She also felt a rush of pride. She had saved someone's life, even though she'd had to end someone else's.

Finally, Jo realized that Sherlock was still standing beside the cabbie's body, muttering to himself, and Jo still had one hand tied to the chair she was sitting on.

"Sherlock," Jo called. Sherlock jerked his gaze toward her. "Come untie me."

Sherlock nodded, still distracted, and knelt to pick at the knots in the blood covered ropes.

Something about the sight made Sherlock snap out of his daze.

He grabbed Jo's gun from her hand, and wiped the gun clean with his coat. He wrapped the cabbie's slack fingers around the handle, and then clasped his fingers over that and fired a shot into the wall behind the cabbie.

Jo barely blinked at the sudden thunderous report of the gun."What the hell was that for?" Jo snapped, as she cradled her stinging, bleeding wrists.

"I suppose this gun is unregistered?" Sherlock asked, placing the gun on one of the tables.

Jo nodded warily. "Are you going to tell the police?"

Sherlock shook his head with an almost condescending smile. "I just wiped the gun clean of your prints and planted his and mine on it. As long as we get the powder burns out of your hands, as far as the police know, I fired that gun, missed, fired again, and killed that man."

"Yeah, suppose we should call the police," Jo sighed. Her adrenaline was beginning to bleed away, and now, she was feeling her exhaustion.

Sherlock nodded, and punched a number into his phone. Sherlock spoke to someone for a few minutes, then flipped his phone shut.

"Come on," Sherlock said, grabbing Jo's arm, carefully avoiding her bleeding wrists, and leading her out of the room. "We need to find a sink."

Jo followed Sherlock. A zing of pain zipped through her hip as they walked, but otherwise, Jo was completely steady on her feet.

Sherlock pulled Jo into a restroom, flicking the lights on as he entered. He pulled her to the sink, and squirted foam soap into his hands. Sherlock turned on the water, and dragged Jo's hands under it, scrubbing the soap into her skin. Jo hissed as the soap stung her chaffed wrists.

As Sherlock worked the soap into Jo's hands, he said, "Lestrade will be here in a few minutes. Our story: the cabbie foolishly set the gun on the table. You made a ruckus, allowing me to snatch the gun and shoot the cabbie. I missed once, though. I needed to get the powder on my hands, so we could explain the shot."

Jo nodded. "Got it." Jo watched dispassionately as blood-tinted water dripped into the sink.

Jo dried her hands on a paper towelette, and grabbed a few more, dampening them, and placing them on her wrists.

"Thanks, Sherlock," Jo said. She was silent for a moment, then she snapped. "I can't believe you were going to eat that pill!" She screeched. "How could you be so smart, and yet so stupid?"

Sherlock stared at her, startled, by her ferocity and anger.

Jo pointed a sharp finger into his face. "That was an idiotic move. We didn't have to go through all this. Think it through, next time!"

Sherlock blinked.

Jo glared at him for a moment, but his confused face made her burst out laughing. "You are such an idiot," she said as her laughter cooled her anger.

Sherlock joined her laughter, chuckling softly as he smiled.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next one will be up soon! Thanks again for your favorites, follows, and review(s). Please leave a review and tell me what you think? Anything that needs fixing? Thank you!**

 **-Indigene Syke**


	6. Chapter 6

Later, outside the college, Jo and Sherlock sat shoulder to shoulder on the back steps of an ambulance. Jo had a bright orange blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulder. She was trying to convince Sherlock to put his back on.

"Why have I got this blanket?" he asked, annoyed. "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock." Lestrade strode over to the odd duo. He grinned at the sour look on Sherlock's face.

"I'm not in shock," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs."

Jo barked out a laugh at Lestrade's comment. Lestrade laughed too as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Lestrade's face became serious. "Sherlock, Miss Watson, both of you will have to give a statement. Sherlock, you should be fine about the cabbie. Anyone could see that it was self-defense."

Sherlock nodded.

Lestrade studied him carefully. "So you missed the cabbie once, and hit the wall?" Lestrade's voice was skeptical. "I thought you were a better shot, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged and glanced at Jo, who asked, "What are you looking at me for?"

Lestrade's eye flicked curiously between the two. Sherlock was acting... odd. Not bad, just different. Lestrade wasn't sure if he should be worried or not. A tiny smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock's lips.

"Dinner?" he asked Jo.

"Starving," Jo said, smiling.

Lestrade folded his arms. "I've still got questions for you," he said.

Sherlock frowned as he looked back at Lestrade. "Oh, what now? I've just caught you a serial killer! More or less."

Lestrade studied Sherlock and Jo thoughtfully. "Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go. Sherlock, make sure Miss Watson gets home safe, or I'll arrest you."

Jo smiled and shook Lestrade's hand and thanked him. She carefully folded her shock blanket and laid it on the top step of the ambulance. Sherlock just bundled his blanket up and tossed it into the back.

Jo shivered in the chill night air as they walked away from the ambulance.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, of course I'm all right."

Sherlock studied Jo carefully. Her cropped grey-blond hair was a wild mess, sticking up in a thousand directions. She had white gauze wrapped around the abrasions on her wrists. Her clothes were rumpled and there were small spots of blood on her shoes, and the bottoms of her trousers.

"You have just killed a man," Sherlock reminded her quietly.

Jo paused as they passed an empty police car. "Yes, I…" She trailed off as she thought for a moment.

Sherlock locked eyes with Jo.

Jo smiled. "That's true, isn't it?"

Sherlock didn't look away, just raised an eyebrow.

"He wasn't a very nice man," Jo said, shrugging, and moving forward again. "He'd killed a bunch of people. And he was a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock smiled, apparently reassured that Jo wasn't going to have a break down.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "Not a very nice man. And he was a bad cabbie. The route he took to get us here. Ridiculous."

Sherlock chuckled. Jo giggled as Sherlock lifted the yellow crime scene tape to allow Jo to pass under it.

"Stop!" Jo squeaked. "Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me."

Jo glanced to each side. "Keep your voice down!"

The police woman whom Jo had met at the Wilson crime scene, Donovan, gave her an odd look.

"Sorry," Jo muttered to her. "It's just, um, nerves, I think."

Jo sighed as they passed Donovan. "I can't believe you were going to take that pill."

Sherlock glanced side-long at her, face straight. "I wasn't. Besides, I was right. I know I was. I would've been fine."

"Whatever you want to think," Jo muttered. She blinked once. "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking affronted. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I was right; you're an idiot."

Sherlock smiled, dropping his affronted pretense.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese, stays open 'til two," Sherlock told Jo as they walked, gesturing down the street. "You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

"Yeah?" Jo chuckled. "I bet you predict the fortune cookies, too."

"Always," Sherlock stated.

"Don't believe you," Jo said. "You can't know everything."

"Almost can," Sherlock told her, breathing deeply in the cool night. "I know you did get shot, though, in Afghanistan. There was an actual wound. Not just your psychosomatic limp."

Jo nodded, pursing her lips. "Yeah, that's right. Shoulder."

"Thought so. Left one, yes?"

"Still don't believe you. And that was a guess. And don't say you never guess, because you guessed that Harry was a boy."

Sherlock scoffed. "Semantics."

Jo huffed out a tired laugh. She glanced at Sherlock and saw his sharp smile playing across his face. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said.

Jo nodded, rolling her eyes. Of course he was excited about a potentially psychopathic person and/or group of people. "So any ideas on who or what Moriarty is?"

Sherlock's face brightened further. "I've absolutely no idea."

* * *

Several hours later, back at her bedsit, Jo slumped into one of her only two chairs. This one was slightly less squeaky than the other. She was pleasantly full of dim sum. Her leg was hardly bothering her. A zing of pain every once in a while, but otherwise, almost the same as before Afghanistan. Her shoulder was sore from being tied behind her, but it was nothing that Jo couldn't handle. She'd experienced much worse.

It was nearing two-thirty in the morning, but Jo couldn't sleep as she contemplated the adventures of the last few days. A dead aunt, a crime scene, a mad detective, a hostage situation, _and_ actual food in her system; it was strange to have had such a full few days, among the dull grey of the _usual_ since her return from the war.

Jo thought of her silly blog (orders of her therapist) and thought of sharing her adventures. Jo was such an awful typist, finger-pecking her way through even the shortest bits, that she hated it. But… Jo had an empty journal. Leather-bound. Companion fountain pen. It was beautiful. And Jo had always enjoyed writing.

Jo pushed herself out of her chair, and dug through her drawers until she found the journal. It didn't take long. Jo flicked on her lamp, and sat at the table, setting the beautiful journal in front of her. Across the top, Jo scrawled a title in permanent pen: _A Memoir of Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

Sherlock steepled his fingers, slouching in his black armchair, as he considered the events of the case. It had been an interesting endeavor, a nice change from the stagnancy of _boredom._

The cabbie's motives had been quite unexpected, and something Sherlock didn't quite understand. What was so special about children, anyway, especially children that you hadn't seen in ages?

Sherlock snorted softly, the sound absorbed by the organized chaos around him. Sentiment. He'd never understand it.

But the cabbie and his methods weren't what was currently standing out in Sherlock's mind.

Jo Watson.

She was a puzzle. Interesting. Different.

Sherlock had written her off as ordinary (dull!) the first time he had seen her, standing near the wall at the crime scene. He had seen, and observed everything.

Short hair, just growing out from a buzz cut, unusual hairstyle for a woman her age. Shoulders straight, and feet apart, hands clasped behind her. Parade rest. Military personnel, then.

Face and hands weathered and tanned, but a sliver of paler skin could be seen where the horrible blue jumpsuit she was wearing had slipped up her wrists. Suntan.

Military, suntan, harsh weathering. Heat, wind, and sun, possibly sand. Afghanistan or Iraq.

The woman was steady in her resting stance, but when she had walked, or moved around, she had favored her right leg. Injury? No, psychosomatic. Her right hand was calloused, and her fingers curled as if she carried something in that hand frequently. A cane, yes, for the psychosomatic limp. Probably had a therapist, too. And if the limp was psychosomatic, something traumatic must have happened for her to obtain it. Wounded in action, then.

Her comfort around the dead body and the bustle of the crime scene told him that she had seen such things before.

The large first-aid kit resting by her feet, possibly the property of the police, but unlikely. The woman was dead.

Comfort around death, unbothered by the bustle of busy people, first-aid kit, doctor, or nurse, at the least.

Sherlock had seen it all in an instant.

Sherlock had also noticed how thin the woman was, and the dark circles under her eyes. Depression. Eating disorder. Nightmares, or restlessness, but Sherlock didn't care much. He had dismissed the woman just as quickly as he had seen everything about her.

Sherlock had been a bit surprised when the woman, who Lestrade had identified as Watson, had reacted so calmly to the realization that her aunt was the dead woman lying on the floor.

Then, when Sherlock had laid his deductions out, Watson had actually praised him. Most people couldn't stand Sherlock's so-called 'know-it-all' tendencies.

Sherlock had declared the case murder, not suicide, and then upon his realization that there should a suitcase, a pink suitcase, left everyone at the crime scene confused and annoyed, something that Sherlock found a slight bit of perverse pleasure in.

It was the intrigue of Watson that had made him, chuckling, realize that Lestrade, poor idiot that he was, would suspect the woman in the murder. A quick text had saved that waste of time.

Sherlock had found Jennifer Wilson's case within an hour. He hadn't wanted to go all the way back to his flat, someone else's was closer, Lestrade had told him, and Sherlock was sure that she wouldn't mind, and Watson interested him for some reason. Sherlock was curious.

So he had taken the pink suitcase to Watson's flat, shot down her confusion and indignation at his sudden entrance, then laid everything that he knew about her out.

Even with his perpetual and purposeful bluntness, Watson was still impressed.

Something about Watson intrigued Sherlock, and not just her amazed reactions to his deductions. Sherlock sensed… something different about the woman.

But he had put that curiosity aside for a time when he realized what he could do to prove to her that her limp was all in her head. Sherlock could see the faint hunger in the woman's stone-blue eyes as she stared at the pink suitcase. She needed danger and excitement, or she was going to wilt like a dead flower.

For some reason, that thought made Sherlock's nose wrinkle.

So he had dangled a figurative carrot in front of Watson's nose, and knew she would follow him.

And he had been right. As usual. The chase from Angelo's restaurant had gotten Watson's heart pounding, and her adrenaline flowing. And, of course, she had left her cane behind. Just Sherlock's point.

The change was dramatic.

Watson had been bright and smiling, and excited and _alive._

A small bit of pleasure had bloomed in his chest when he saw her smile.

Then Lestrade had gone and ruined it with his silly drugs bust.

But apparently not.

Jo hadn't seemed to care about his past. It was refreshing.

The cab ride back to Watson's bedsit had taken an unexpected turn-literally and figuratively.

He hadn't expected the cabbie. And he certainly hadn't expected Jo's sudden, brilliant realization. Obviously, Watson was smarter than Sherlock had given her credit for. Not that her level of intelligence was anywhere near his, but then, nobody's was. Expect perhaps Mycroft, the lazy git.

The situation at the college had been more exciting and exhilarating than the cab chase from earlier.

Sherlock had been so interested in the cabbie's little 'game' that he had nearly forgotten Jo was there, ignoring her anger and fear until she had drawn the gun he had noticed hidden in her trousers and shot the cabbie dead.

At least he had gotten one piece of information from the obstinate cabbie; Moriarty.

The name sent a thrill down Sherlock's spine. He had nothing on the name in his mind palace. The mystery was definitely a ten.

Who'd ever heard of sponsored killings? Not even Sherlock.

Still, quite possibly the most interesting thing that had happened was that Jo had shot a man for Sherlock, a virtual stranger, with no hesitation. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

Jo's soft but sturdy voice had drawn him out of his thoughts. The blood on Jo's wrists had unsettled Sherlock, no matter that he dealt with blood and gore on a regular basis.

And the gun. The unregistered gun. That was a problem. Sherlock doubted that Jo would have served time for her shooting the cabbie, but nevertheless, the gun was unregistered and illegal.

So Sherlock had tampered with the evidence. So what? Lestrade would forgive him, if he ever found out, which Sherlock was determined would never happen.

Sherlock had planted his and the cabbie's fingerprints on the gun. If Jo's fingerprints were on the bullets themselves, from when she loaded them, well, Sherlock would come up with something for that as well.

For some reason, that was quite unfathomable to him, Sherlock didn't want Jo to be in any sort of trouble.

Sherlock had dragged Jo to a restroom and scrubbed the powder burns off her hands and fingers.

Jo had complied without complaint. Sherlock had been worried that she was going into shock.

But Sherlock was the one who was shocked when she had shouted at him and called him an idiot… then had the nerve to laugh at him!

Sherlock had found that he didn't mind.

Jo Watson was special.

In his mind palace, Sherlock opened an empty file folder, and slotted the information Sherlock had gathered on Watson inside, the mental picture he had formed of her clipped to the top.

Sherlock paused before he slid the folder into a file cabinet. Hmm….

Sherlock frowned and fingered the folder. Decided, he laid the folder on a table cluttered with 'files of interest.' He'd have to come back to Jo Watson.

Sherlock's sixth sense said that Jo Watson was different. A cut above most. Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile. Jo Watson and Sherlock Holmes would meet again. He was sure of it.

* * *

 **Hooray! That's one down. Hope you enjoyed this. Thank you so much, reviewers! You guys are the bomb! This chapter is for you. Hope you liked the Sherlock POV. I hadn't planned on that. Anyway, see you next time!**

 **-Indigene Syke**


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